


strip tease, prick tease (car keys blues)

by MoragMacPherson



Series: 23 ½ Weeks [4]
Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, POV Eddie Brock, but they are for almost the duration of this fic very nearly nice to each other, drake and eddie are each THE WORST in their own special ways, god help me this is what passes for schmoop in this 'verse, the author does not endorse carlton drake's beliefs about mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 08:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16322939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoragMacPherson/pseuds/MoragMacPherson
Summary: Eddie's never going to understand Carlton Drake.





	strip tease, prick tease (car keys blues)

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, many, many thanks to eisoj5 for her beta work and encouragement, and an additional thank you to everyone who's been commenting on this series-- it's very helpful in inspiring me to keep writing for these two.

Eddie's response when he hears Drake coming into the apartment is to pull the covers tighter over his shoulders and turn over on the bed so he's not facing the door. He just can't deal with Drake's stupid fucking face right now. His voice will be bad enough. 

"Should I be worried?" Drake asks. 

Eddie can tell that he's smiling, he just _knows_. "Can't imagine why you'd be worried," he grunts out, not bothering to turn to see. 

He hears Drake's sigh, footsteps, and then the music being dialed down before he hears Drake come back into the bedroom. "You're lying in bed at four in the afternoon on a weekday while listening to country music." 

"'s'not country, it's Uncle Tupelo." 

"That's alt-country." 

"It's punk." 

"And this is the hill you've chosen to die on, possibly literally," says Drake, with what he probably thinks is a note of fond frustration in his voice, but is really just that fucking insufferable tone of his. "What happened, Eddie?" 

_What happened? What fucking happened?_ You _happened. Destroyed my career, destroyed my relationship, can't get a call back on a fucking tabloid blind item, I'm living in an apartment you pay for, eating your groceries, and when you fucking feel like it, sucking your cock in this not-really a relationship that we're in that I can't even tell my fucking mother about thanks to the contract that I signed—_

Eddie's had so many fantasies about screaming this in Drake's face for the last couple of weeks, and he could— he _should_ — he should say it and get it out in the open. Not that Drake doesn't already know all of it. 

He should just fucking _say it_ and then he won't keep thinking about it. 

He doesn't say it. 

"My motorcycle won't start," he says instead, because discovering that fact this morning was the final straw in his new rotten life that had just sent him right back here to bed. 

He can hear Drake starting to say, 'Okay' and holds up a finger to silence him. "And do not offer to buy me another bike, I like my fucking bike, it's mine and I already take too much of your charity," he snarls, pulling his arm back under the covers, turning his face onto the pillow slightly more aggressively. 

Eddie hears Drake sigh and leave the bedroom— but doesn't hear the slam of the front door the way that he really expects to. He does hear Drake's voice faintly— maybe he's calling a car to get picked up early or something, Eddie really needs to remember to put a keycode on his phone so Drake stops just using the damn thing— and then Drake's steps returning, and then his dresser being opened. 

Eddie finally opens his eyes and lifts his head off the pillow. "What're you doing?" 

Drake's got Eddie's gym bag and is pushing some clothes into it. "You're depressed. I'm getting you out of the house. Called you a car, should be here to pick up in just a minute or two," says Drake, sounding half like a kindergarten teacher as he says it. He turns and offers Eddie a small smile. "You'll feel better at my place." 

Eddie sits up just enough to make a face at him. "I will not, and I already said, I take enough— hey, stop that," he protests when Drake grabs the duvet and drags it onto the floor. "I don't want to go," he adds lamely, hiking up the sheet, though Drake drags that away too. 

"Yes, but you need to go," says Drake calmly. "It'll help get you out of this negative headspace. C'mon, big guy," he says, offering Eddie a hand. Eddie takes it because he's a fucking idiot, and finds himself pulled to his feet and his gym bag pressed into his hands. 

Drake kisses him on the forehead and then physically turns him towards the door and starts pushing him out of it. "Promise I'm not buying you a new bike, you say you like your bike, but we're gonna get you out of this funk," he adds, and before Eddie even remembers that he doesn't have his phone, keys, or wallet, he's standing in his slippers in the hallway, staring at his front door. 

He checks his bag, finds his sneakers inside, and trades them for the slippers before he hears a trio of polite honks. He rushes down the stairs and into the waiting car. 

_Fuck._

He hadn't been lying about not wanting to go, but Drake had wanted him to go, so here he is, in Drake's car being driven to wherever Drake wants him to be. Of course he is. 

_Or maybe I'm being driven off into the woods to be shot._

The thought is oddly soothing, but once they're out of traffic it's obvious that he's being driven back to Drake's house. It _is_ a nice place— almost too nice, and Eddie's just sort of standing in the foyer for several minutes, unsure about where he should go or what it is he's supposed to be doing before another car pulls up the drive and Drake pops out of it. 

"You forgot these," he says brightly, handing Eddie his phone and keys, though not his wallet— but then, it's not like there's much in Eddie's wallet these days. 

Drake's kissed him on the forehead again. "I want you to get changed into the clothes I packed, Eddie. Bathroom's right through there— and you've already got the sneakers on, good for you— shows initiative, you're gonna need that," he says, walking off in a different direction before Eddie thinks to ask which clothes he's supposed to be getting into. 

As it turns out, there's only really one outfit in the bag, and Eddie curses when he sees it, but gamely gets into his running shorts and a clean t-shirt before venturing out of the bathroom, scowling when Drake appears in the doorway, beckoning him with a finger. "Why am I in your house in my gym clothes?" he asks Drake. 

"Because when you're depressed, you need endorphins. Easiest way in the world to get that is a runner's high, and I happen to own a very nice treadmill," says Drake, leading Eddie through his house and into what must be his personal gym, which has a truly stunning view along with a couple of different televisions in it. Eddie can't see it, but figures the sound system probably costs more than his old annual salary. 

Eddie hesitates even as Drake retrieves a water bottle and helpfully sets it in the treadmill's cup holder. "You— you wanted me to come here and run?" 

Drake nods, gently tugging on Eddie's arm until he's on the machine. "That's exactly right, it'll be good for you. Don't need to push too far, just need to get you moving for a little," he says, patting Eddie's hand. 

Eddie blinks, sucking his lips between his teeth as he tries to figure out exactly what the hell is really going on here. "And you— you're gonna watch— is this some weird sex thing? I should know, so I know not to talk about it, y'know— what with the agreement and all," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Drake actually laughs, though it's not an unkind laugh. It's _worse_ , it's the kind of laugh you give a sick or horribly injured person when they're finally feeling well enough to make a lame joke. "It's not a weird sex thing— and I'm not going to be watching you do it, not most of it at least— I'm going to be on the phone a bit. But I want you to do this for me, please, Eddie. It'll help, I promise," he says, pressing a couple of buttons to start the treadmill up and giving Eddie a thumbs up. "You've got this, big guy," he says before retreating out of the room. 

Eddie's tempted to stare after him, but then he's already on the treadmill and it's already running, and the remote for the tv is right here, so… Eddie runs. 

He watches two episodes of Teen Titans Go! and jogs five miles, until he's huffing and puffing and has soaked the shirt through with sweat. When Drake reappears he's slowed down to a cool down walk. "Fuckin' beat— been awhile since I— I'm a little out of shape," he admits, sucking down the last of the water from the bottle and dumping just a little bit of it over his head. 

Drake's eyes gleam. "I don't know, you look pretty good to me," he says, tugging on Eddie's arm and pulling him down off the treadmill and into a lingering kiss, his usual squeamishness apparently not applying to sweat. "And you're certainly looking better than you were earlier this evening," he adds. "Told you that you'd feel better." 

Eddie pauses, blinking a couple of times, because fucked if he _doesn't_ feel better than he has all day. He'd spent about half the time fantasizing about punching Drake in his smarmy fucking mouth, but then he'd just sort of lost himself in the running and mindless cartoons and… now he's almost too tired and sore to actually feel horrible about everything else. 

"Goddammit," he mutters. 

Drake beams at him as he hands him a towel. "Definitely feeling better. It's okay— it helps to have a little bit of support when you're in a slump." 

He ushers Eddie to yet another bathroom. Eddie's not sure how why a house for one person would need so many. "Get showered up and you've got some clothes here— then we'll have dinner and then later, I've got a surprise for you. You're going to love it, I promise," he says, pulling Eddie in for a quick if thorough kiss. "Okay, you smell horrible, I'll let you shower." 

Eddie stares after him for a moment, still a bit confused about what's going on and faintly disappointed that Drake's not joining him in the shower, especially since this shower looks much more conducive to sharing than the one back in the apartment. 

But he does smell a bit like a gym sock, so he gamely figures out all of the damn handles and gets himself a hot, steamy shower with the extra freaky massaging heads providing considerable relief for his sore muscles. The clothes… aren't his jeans or t-shirt, but they fit better than the pajamas he'd borrowed on the last visit here, so he's not sure they're Drake's either. 

Dammit, he _shouldn’t_ feel a flash of jealousy that they might be someone else's— no, Drake's got plenty of money and they look new. Drake buys him groceries, no reason why he wouldn't buy him clothes. And if they're someone else's— no, Eddie's not even going to finish that thought. He doesn't care. Drake's always a conscientious condom user and it's not his fucking business. 

He does tug at the shirt when he steps out of the bathroom and finds Drake waiting for him again. "Thought you weren't elevating me," he says. "Weren't interested in anything like that." 

Drake's smile turns slightly more genuine— Eddie can always tell by the crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes. "Doesn't mean that I'm allowed to let you sink further than you should. It's all right, Eddie. You still don't have to worry about me elevating you at all, I know about your problems with heights," he says, beckoning Eddie towards the dining room. 

And having dinner is… surprisingly nice. It's some kind of curried fish dish with rice and a lot of vegetables and lacking in preservatives, but Eddie's starving after all that running, so he doesn't mind. Drake doesn't try to prod him into small talk either, instead watching a financial news network and peering at his tablet rather intently, which is also kind of refreshing— Eddie's been a little worried that with all this worrying over him being depressed, Drake might try to make him talk about his feelings, and he… has even less desire in that than Drake dragging him out to the opera. 

It's oddly comfortable, so much so that he's a little surprised when a small, neatly uniformed woman shows up to clear the table. Eddie _knows_ in the back of his head that Drake probably employs a small army to take care of himself and this place, but for the duration of dinner, he's just let himself forget that the annoying bastard he's been fucking is also a billionaire. 

Eddie sips at his wine and wonders what kind of non-disclosure agreement the people that Drake trusts to work in his house must have all signed. His privacy's probably at least as safe here as it is back at the apartment. Even so, he's still a little wary about that surprise that Drake mentioned but he hasn't brought up again. This place could certainly hide a very elaborate sex dungeon, not that Drake's been all that kinky even since Eddie had signed the NDA. Then again, Eddie sort of _is_ Drake's sex toy, so maybe that's all the toys the man needs. 

Eddie scowls and Drake shakes his head, turning off the television set with a voice command. "Eddie, you're getting lost in your head again, I can tell," he says, clucking his tongue before taking a sip of whatever the hell it is he's drinking. 

"Of course you can, you know everything," mutters Eddie, drinking down the last of the wine and wishing it were a beer. 

Drake hops to his feet. "We need to get you moving again, keep you from sulking," he says, coming around the table and tugging Eddie to his feet. 

The muscles in Eddie's legs protest a bit even at that. "I don't think I can run any—" but the rest of his response is cut off by a long, hungry kiss, and he whimpers softly. "This the big surprise? I don't mind, but it's not that surprising," he says as the kiss breaks. 

Drake huffs out a soft laugh. "No, this isn't the surprise. Surprise can wait until morning," he says, walking Eddie backwards out of the dining room as he nips at his lips and jaw. 

Eddie's eyes go a bit wide. "Until the morning? Am I spending the night?" he asks. 

"Got someplace else to be?" asks Drake, which is just fucking obnoxious, but then his teeth are worrying on Eddie's pulse point which he _knows_ drives pretty much every thought out of Eddie's head, and Eddie moans because Drake is fucking _cheating_ , but he's also really good at it. 

All too quickly they're in— well, it must be Drake's bedroom, which Eddie's never been in before. It's got the same sleek lines and sort of minimalist design as the rest of the house, but the bed is huge and on a slight platform that Eddie has to take care not to trip on. And the mattress, when Drake pushes him down on it, feels sort of wonderful and probably horrifically expensive. "Just wasn't ever really expecting to sleep here again, that's all," Eddie admits as Drake pulls his new jeans off, lifting his hips to help him. 

Drake shakes his head as he sheds his own clothes. "Well, I could drag you all the way back to the apartment, but I'm just… not patient enough for that kind of commute right now," he purrs, crawling on top of Eddie, the kisses growing more urgent as he grinds down against him. That's an excellent point, even if Eddie does wind up groaning in minor pain when he tries to wrap his still sore legs around Drake. "You're really that sore?" Drake asks with a soft chuckle. 

Eddie flashes him a dirty look. "Someone told me to run my problems away— but I'll be fine," he adds, because Drake's already got him revved up and hard and Eddie's certainly gotten over more discomfort than this for sex in the past. 

The feeling of Drake's strong, clever hands massaging his thighs, however, is pretty fucking good, and Eddie lets out another long moan— it makes up for the way that Drake's smirking. "I'm sure you'll be fine— and I've always been pretty good at improvisation," he says, grin growing wider when Eddie protests him stopping the massage to reach into his nightstand for lube and a condom. 

Eddie blinks in surprise, however, when Drake pushes them into his hands. "Wait, what?" he asks lamely, sitting up a bit as Drake lies down next to him, pulling his knees up. 

Drake slants a look at him. "Well— you're already sore, and I've been waiting to have a chance to ride you, so if you could go ahead and prep me, I'll do most of it but I'd rather not do _all_ of the work, Eddie," he says matter-of-factly. 

Eddie feels his eyes going very wide. "Oh. Right. Okay," he says, slicking his fingers obediently— he's not going to question Drake's preferences and the thought of Drake riding him— it's a _very_ nice ass he's looking at, and when he pushes a finger inside— okay, he's on board for this plan, even if Drake is a little bit bossy about his prep. 

Once he's satisfied, however, he pulls Eddie down for another hard, hungry kiss, knees locking around Eddie's hips as he rolls them. He grins again as he rears back onto his knees. "What are you smiling about?" he asks Eddie, reaching for his cock and giving it a couple of lazy strokes. 

Eddie blinks again as he realizes he is indeed smiling, but Drake is, objectively, gorgeous and has his hands on Eddie's dick, and why the hell _shouldn't_ he be smiling? "Just enjoying the view," he says, opening the condom and handing it to Drake so he can roll it on. "And getting out of the work," he adds, folding his arms behind his head. 

Drake rolls his eyes, but that doesn't stop him from pushing up on his knees and rubbing the head of Eddie's cock against his own entrance a couple of times before slowly sinking down on it, his head tipping back as Eddie bottoms out. Eddie pushes up into him, because it feels fucking amazing and he wants to see if he can make Drake make that face again— and he _can_ , along with a sharp, needy little cry that's music to Eddie's ears. 

"Always knew you were a fucking tight ass," says Eddie, and the glare that Drake turns on him might be the best part of this yet— nope, Drake clenches around him intentionally, and _that's_ definitely the best part so far. 

"Eddie, do us both a favor and just shut up for a couple minutes," says Drake, and then he starts to rock up and down on Eddie's cock. 

Eddie will certainly shut up if he keeps doing that. He dares to rest his hands on Drake's thighs, feeling the muscles ripple under his fingers before setting his feet flat on the bed so that he can supplement the rise and drop of Drake's hips with his own thrusts, and given the way that Drake moans, Eddie's confident he hasn't overstepped his bounds. 

It winds up being Drake who speaks up next, several minutes later, his body sheened in sweat, and after several highly gratifying cries since Eddie found the magic angle that has his cock brushing against Drake's prostate on every thrust. "Gonna help at all?" gasps out Drake, glancing down at his own cock, which, at this point, looks painfully hard 

Eddie's not a contortionist, so as tempting as it would be to suck on that cock, he winds up wrapping his hand around it instead. "Think I can handle this," he grunts, stroking Drake's cock as his own thrusts start to turn erratic. Drake clenches around him as Eddie comes, though Drake's not far behind, screaming out his orgasm before toppling gracelessly onto Eddie's chest. 

"Always… sound… like a bad porno when you talk," pants Drake when he manages to pull his head out of the crook of Eddie's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Eddie's scruff like a damn cat. 

Eddie gives him a giddy, fucked out grin. "Yeah, but you like it," he says, earning himself another glare, but also another kiss, probably to shut him up, but Eddie's okay with that. "And I'll do my fair share of the clean up," he says when the kiss breaks, even though he really doesn't want to move at all. Having Drake blanketed over him like this is actually more comfortable than he cares to admit. 

"Damn right you will," says Drake, giving Eddie one more lingering kiss before sliding off of him with a groan. "It's good for you, moving about," he adds, slapping Eddie lightly on the hip. Eddie sighs and rolls off the bed, looking around— "En suite is that way," says Drake, not lifting his head off the pillow but pointing in the bathroom's direction. 

Eddie disposes of the condom and gets himself cleaned up, returning to the bed with a washcloth and a glass of water, because that's what Drake always does for him, and being an asshole to Drake right now just doesn't feel right. Drake's still face down on the bed, which makes Eddie feel rather proud of himself— maybe today isn't the worst day he's ever had. 

"Got you some water," he says, setting the glass on the nightstand before starting to clean Drake up. 

"You did? Oh, that's— that's nice, thank you," murmurs Drake, not moving. "Please don't throw that washcloth on the floor— hamper's over there," he adds when Eddie finishes, finally moving so he can gulp down the water and point out the hamper. 

"Wasn't going to," lies Eddie as he gets up to dispose of it properly. When he turns around Drake is already burrowing under the covers. "So, am I sleeping here?" he asks. 

Drake lets out a soft groan. "Only if you just come to bed and don't make any bad jokes about it" he says, before telling the lights to turn off. Eddie forgets about the damn platform the bed's sitting on in the dark and slams his shin into it, barely keeping himself from falling. 

"God, you're— just get in bed, can't fix everything for you," grumbles Drake. 

Eddie scowls but obediently crawls under the covers, rubbing his banged up shin. The bed is large enough that they're not forced to touch at all, not like in his bed at the apartment, the couple of times that Drake's slept there. But at least it's comfortable enough that Eddie doesn't really mind. 

Drake's insistence that Eddie wake up along with him at four thirty in the morning, however, Eddie could definitely live without. "It's still dark out," he moans, clutching at the plush pillow. 

"It's gym time— and after that, surprise time, so come on, let's get those endorphins pumping," says Drake, who is infuriatingly calm and awake for the hour. 

It's not like Eddie can really say no, not after yesterday, so he pulls himself out of the bed and staggers to the bathroom. He probably shouldn't be surprised to find his gym clothes from yesterday freshly laundered and waiting for him— Drake and his staff are never going to let him have any excuses at all. 

"Only remember seeing the one treadmill," he says when he gets out, scrubbing at his face with his hand and not even trying to fight off a yawn. 

"That's fine, you can take the elliptical machine instead, it'll be kinder on your knees," says Drake with a wave of his hand. Eddie barely manages to suppress his urge to stick his tongue out at him. 

His legs still sore from last night, Eddie only manages four miles over the eighty minutes on the elliptical, while he watches Drake absolutely charge through ten. It's maddening to watch, even as it's nice to have a chance to ogle at him in his running shorts— if his tongue is hanging out a bit and Drake catches him, well, it's because he's being run fucking ragged and hasn't even had a cup of coffee yet. 

Even worse is when Drake comes over, looks at Eddie's distance and squeezes his shoulder like he's fucking _proud_ of him. "You powered right through— see what can happen when you get up bright and early?" he says, tossing Eddie a towel and if Eddie had any strength left in his body after all that he'd be strangling the life out of him now. 

The shower sex after does help a little bit, but it doesn't change the fact that Drake's fucking insane. 

"Still not the surprise?" he groans as Drake pulls out of him, perfectly content to let Drake do all the clean up work when it's just barely after six in the fucking morning. 

Drake shakes his head. "Surprise comes after breakfast, I promise— and you're going to like it, that I also promise," he adds, shutting off the water. Eddie could just turn the water back on and live here the rest of his life in the nice massaging shower, but breakfast does sound appealing, and so he follows after Drake to get dressed. 

Waffles help a little bit, but Eddie's convinced that any surprise is going to be deeply underwhelming at this time of day. And when Drake drags him into his garage, he is indeed less surprised and more puzzled to see his own motorcycle sitting on the concrete. 

"That's— why's my bike in your garage? Does it start?" he asks, pressing the starter and answering his own question. 

"No," says Drake as the bike sputters and wheezes. "But it will once we're done with it," he says, pulling off his fleece and tossing it on a bench before pulling a large tool chest away from the wall. 

Eddie tilts his head at him. "You know how to fix a bike? 'Cause I don't have— I could change the sparkplugs, if that were the problem, but I'm pretty sure it's not," he says, still a little distracted by Drake in his tank top, because knowing how much work Drake puts into his body doesn't make his bare arms any less attractive. 

Drake shrugs. "I've got a fair amount of experience with engines of all kind— this one is a little less interplanetary than the ones I've been working on lately, but I'm willing to give it a shot— and the spark plugs might not be the worst place to start," he says, pulling out a car creeper and sitting on it, wheeling it over so that he can start pulling the plugs. 

Eddie shakes his head, scratching at it. "This is my surprise? You're going to help me fix my bike," he says. He definitely hasn't had enough sleep or coffee yet. 

Drake sighs. "Yes, Eddie. This bike cost you, what? Ten grand. Sitting in a bank account, not doing a thing, my wealth will make that in a little less than two hours. That's all it would take for me to just up and replace your bike— but you say you like this bike.” 

He reaches for a wrench. “So we're going to fix it. It'll do you good, help get you out of your head. And at the end of the day, even if we fuck it up completely, I promise you, you'll have a fully functional bike, even if I do wind up ordering you a new one.” 

Eddie stares at Drake. 

It's a fucking weekday, Drake has a whole damn empire to run, and instead he's sitting here with Eddie, intent on fixing his bike. And Eddie should be asking him why the hell he's willing to do that, because it doesn't make any damn sense. But that just seems… ungrateful. He's never going to understand Drake anyway. 

"It’s a pretty good surprise," he admits instead, pulling out another creeper and sitting on it. "So, what do you think is wrong with it?" he asks, wheeling the creeper up next to Drake. 

"Well— we're gonna start with the sparkplugs and then work our way down the line— next step is the battery— judging by the sound it's making when you try it, I don't think it's that— and then on to the solenoid," he says. "You know what a solenoid is, right?" 

"Not a damn clue," says Eddie. "But if you're willing to teach me, I guess I'm willing to learn," he says. 

And if his chest feels oddly warm at the way Drake smiles at that reply, well— it's been a really weird fucking day already.


End file.
